But why the stream, why stay here? I looked around; curving through the trees, the streambed was dark as a tunnel except for the faint glitter from the trickle of water that still flowed along it. Yet the darkness made very thin cover; if he knew I was there, if he was watching, any man up on the bank would have a clear shot…
My mind leapt back and forth, circuits of paranoia arcing through exhaustion and fear — and then, almost as if these mental currents had set it off, the detonating sound of a shot boomed through the darkness. Instinctively, I pressed myself flat, hugging the bank. Yet, even as the shot faded, I realized it was nowhere near here… and I found myself staring down the streambed, back toward the cottage—back toward the road, if you went far enough. Logically, this should have increased my confusion, but in fact it decided me, and rolling onto my back, I skidded down the bank to the base of the streambed. At this point, I don't know what I was thinking, or even if I was thinking at all, for as I headed along the stream, I was going in the direction of danger, toward the spot where the shot had come from. Perhaps I felt I had no choice — at least, in that direction, I had the chance of reaching the road and my car, while going the other way would only carry me deeper into the bush. Or possibly I already suspected the injustice I might have done to Brightman, at least in my mind. And then, with a terrible sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I was almost certain of this. The deep boom of a second shot rolled up the streambed toward me — and I knew this was the sound of a shotgun, not the rifle Subotin was carrying. Rather than setting a trap for me, Brightman was trying to draw him away from my trail. With a wrench of guilty desperation, I rushed on. It wasn't too hard — right down at the water, the streambed was gravel and hard-packed mud, and there was still just enough light to see by: a wedge of dusky light pressed down through the darkness of the forest around the stream and, high up, there was the first opalescent glimmer of a moon. In a few minutes, I'd reached a spot that must have been level with the cabin, though the building was in fact out of sight. I rested there, listening; but after a moment, hearing nothing, I moved forward again. Soon I had no idea where I was; there were too many switchbacks and curves, and the dark, hulking mass of the woods up on the bank made a featureless backdrop. Then, in succession, I ran into two obstacles. An enormous pine, undermined by the encroaching bank of the stream, had toppled across it; its dead, brittle branches were as bad as barbed wire. And, just beyond this, the stream narrowed sharply: which, compressing the water, created a deep enough flow to force me up on the bank. Now, for a good ten minutes I had to fight through brush, in the pitch darkness, which inevitably made a hell of a racket; but then the stream broadened, its flow fell back to the same meager trickle, and I was able to walk along the bed once again.
Five minutes later, I stopped, knowing I must be close to the spot where the shots had come from. Thus, if Brightman had been giving me a chance to escape, I'd defeated his intention — but if that had been his intention, why had he told me to stay in the stream? Probably I should have been able to figure out the old man's plan at this point, but a moment later I didn't need to. Moving forward cautiously, I heard a slipping, sliding, scrabbling sound up ahead.
I stopped dead in my tracks.
For a second, I thought it might be an animal, but it came again and I knew that it wasn't. Someone had skidded down the bank of the stream. Subotin… or Brightman…
I held my breath; in front of me, the streambed stretched ahead into a black, dizzying void. Then stone knocked against stone… rattled away…
Silence: the trickling stream: the wind rustling past.
"Brightman? I know you are there. And your old blunderbuss doesn't frighten me at all."
It was Subotin — it had to be. Standing just where I was, I slowly looked around. I was virtually in the middle of the stream; and the stream here was at its widest point. I couldn't reach either bank before he—
"You see? There is no point. Don't try to hide. Come here. I won't hurt you, Brightman. You know that. For me, that makes no sense."
More silence… the crunch of a footstep… then the glare of a flashlight.
For a second, I was dazzled, like a jacklighted deer. But in fact the beam wasn't pointed toward me; it probed along the top edge of the opposite bank. Shadows leapt up and danced, and for an instant, as in an old photograph, the vague outlines of the bushes and trees were tipped with silver. Then the beam started moving. Wet stones and mud glistened and gleamed… The arc swept closer… I lifted the shotgun—
A shot boomed through the darkness. At once the light died.
But my finger still hadn't touched the trigger. The shot, a great red flash, had been fired from high up on the far bank. Brightman… it had to be… And then he fired again, a red flashing strobe that etched my shadow into the darkness. But he'd missed, for a quick burst of rifle fire exploded in front of me and sent me scrambling for cover.
I lay, pressed down behind a small pile of rocks. More shots, coming so fast they seemed to stumble over each other, whined up the streambed. I could hear them slash through the bush, thump into the bank… but all on the far side of the stream from myself. And now I understood… stay with the stream… and a feeling passed through me that I'd never felt before in my life. I had to kill a man now — there was no other choice. Brightman and I were both foxes now, and he was deliberately drawing the hound close to my teeth. What I needed was cover. These rocks weren't enough; if I missed with my first shot, he'd have me. The bank… but I'd make noise getting up there and, for an instant, going over the top, I'd be caught in silhouette from below.
Then, as I listened to the stream, the simplest idea of all slipped into my mind.
Quietly, running in a low crouch, I retraced my steps down the streambed — hearing two more shots crackling behind me — until I'd reached the spot where the banks constricted. Here, after a bare slope of gravel, there was only the water itself. It was about two feet deep, flowing swiftly, bubbling over the stones.
Silently, I stepped to the edge.
The first touch was like ice. With the next, a steel band gripped my ankle. My foot skidded… I splashed… but the rush of the water covered it and I kept going. In the middle, where the water reached up to my knees, I looked around. A few feet away, three bigger rocks formed a dam, a curve as neat as the back of a chair. Wading quietly toward them, I sat myself down.
The shock of the cold was a kind of compression, a fierce grip on my chest. Yet I had what I wanted — cover: even if he'd been expecting me, he'd never look here. Scooping up mud from the bottom, I blackened my face. Now I was just another rock, a lump of dark in the lumpy black darkness — even the fiercest hound wouldn't catch my scent here. I didn't move. I don't think I breathed. The cold, something concrete to struggle against, was almost a blessing… And then I thought that I saw him, working along, in a crouch, on the far side… or maybe I didn't, for nothing happened. I waited. Don't think. Hold your breath. Be the water. The stones. Your reflection like syrup… your shadow a mist…